Salvezza
by roastpuff
Summary: He was a man robbed of his future. She was a girl robbed of her past. What do these two people have in common? Their search for salvation.
1. Prologue: Inizio

**Prologue: _Inizio _**

"_Don't forget to do up your tie properly!"_

That'd be what she would be saying right now if she were still alive. Minuet – my wife – always loved teasing me because I had a hard time figuring out how to tie a tie properly. Tell me to rig up a two hundred ton tender to the side of an Italian Navy destroyer, and I'd be done in ten minutes flat. Tell me to put together the wiring harness for a Semtex vest and I'll be done in two minutes and thirty seconds, with a garment fit to be sold on Savile Row. Tell me to tie a full Windsor knot with an Italian silk tie, and watch me struggle and turn beet-red. Whenever that happens, she'd come over and fix it for me, and we'd stare into each other's eyes and smile, and do little silly things that any couple loved to do when the situation is right. Three years of marriage hadn't dulled the fire any, and I loved her even more – if that was even possible – when she told me that she was pregnant.

All that stopped five months ago when Minuet and I were walking back to our car after dinner at one of the local restaurants. I was on leave from the COMSUBIN - Comando Raggruppamento Subacquei ed Incursori Teseo Tesei, the Italian equivalent of Navy SEALS – and I had surprised her by showing up at home unannounced before taking her out to dinner. I'd parked a block down from where the little pasta place was, and I'd offered to fetch the car for her – seeing as how she was six months pregnant at the time, and walking was difficult for her – but she insisted on walking with me. So, that was how we found ourselves squarely in the path of a car chase replicated straight out of the dregs of American television. There was a nut in an Alfa Romeo barreling down the street, followed by a bevy of police cars with their sirens blaring and lights blinking. The blue-and-white Fiat Stilos were hard-pushed to keep up with the faster coupé, and at the high speeds that they were traveling at, momentarily lost control as they crested a small hill. With its sports suspension, the Alfa Romeo Jiuletta went over the hill easily; with the not-so-sports suspensions on the Stilos, they did a little hop as they crested.

The third car in the coterie of police vehicles went airborne rather awkwardly, and was balancing on only two tires when it landed. Whoever was inside panicked, did a poor job of correcting – made the car fall on its right side, really – and turned what had been a slightly off jump into a disastrous roll. The little car was shedding parts as it tumbled towards us. We were less than fifteen feet from the quickly disintegrating vehicle, and I realized the danger we were in. I scooped Minuet up in my arms, and tried to dodge the police car. Tried to – didn't quite make it.

Something large struck my back and caused me to stumble, nearly dropping her as I lost my balance. Then, as another object hit me, I _did _lose my balance and fall. I tried to twist mid-fall to use myself as a cushion for her, but only managed to turn enough to make the both of us land on our sides. My arm snapped in several places – I could feel that easily enough – but Minuet was relatively unhurt. She'd landed on top of my hip, and probably had some sprains and bruises, but she was alive. Her eyes – brown, and windows to her soul – found mine, and she mouthed, _"I love you," _as though it was the last thing she'd ever say to me.

Then everything went black as the smoking carcass of the car came upon us.

Those three words _were_ the very last things she said to me. When the paramedics found us, they had to roll the car off of us first before they could administer first aid. It was too late for Minuet - she had died from a combination of blood loss and extreme shock. I, however, was on the brink between death and life. Her body had apparently shielded me from the majority of the flying shrapnel and impact of the car's hulk as it rolled on top of us; she had saved me. Our baby was dead – with no mother sustaining it, how could've it not died? I often wished that I could've followed her that day. Suicide had crossed my mind, but my mother's words stopped me from going down that path: _"Would Minuet have saved you just so that you could commit suicide? Think about it, Donatello. You know better than that. Don't waste her gift."_

So I spent the next three months in hospital, recovering from six broken ribs, two broken legs, a bevy of other muscle injuries including torn ligaments and a broken arm, on top of which learning how to re-use my body took up another month and a half. Many friends from university and from the service came to visit, including my CO, Major Ettore Falcone. He pointed out a contact number for me to call if I wanted to know what really happened that day, and left after telling me that I would always have a place in the Operational Raider Group (Gruppo Operativo Incursori) if I ever decided to come back. Curious – how could I not be, after such a cryptic message – I called the number and was connected to someone called 'Ferro.' After finding out who I was and how I got this number – I mentioned Ettore Falcone and her entire demeanor just changed – she began giving me an explanation of the events on that day.

The person in the Alfa Romeo was supposedly a top member of the Padania Republic Front whose cover had been blown and was "flying the coop," so to speak. The cops eventually lost the terrorist in the winding city streets, and hadn't the slightest clue as to who he or she was. It wasn't surprising – outside of NOCS (_Nucleo Operativo Centrale di Sicurezza)_ the police force wasn't much to speak of, and definitely ill-suited to anything beyond routine police activities.

What was surprising was the job offer that Ferro extended to me. Work as a trainer for her agency, she said, and I'd be able to chase down the PRF terrorist if it didn't conflict with the mission at hand. After I'd served with them for a certain length of time – to be discussed, she intimated – I'd even be able to go back to the ORG as an instructor if I wished; that was probably the best that I'd be able to do, considering my injuries. Getting back onto the active list was a qualified pipe dream, so this was probably the next best thing. I certainly wouldn't have known what to do with myself if I had been tossed out into the civilian world after my hospital stay. I accepted, of course. She then told me that she'd contact Major Falcone to expedite my discharge, and wait for them to contact me again within a two-week period. In the meantime, I was to rest, relax and finish settling into what was left of my life.

Today was the day that I was to meet with Ferro in person for an interview. I was almost done dressing; all that was left to do was the tie. Finishing up the knot – a full, proudly arched Windsor – I smile sadly at the mirror. _See, Minuet? I finally learnt how to tie a Windsor. _

I brush my fingertips over the photograph on the dresser next to the mirror – it's of Minuet and I, on our honeymoon in Egypt – pick up the folder on the dresser and leave the one-bedroom apartment for the meeting with Ferro. The rendezvous was at a street-side café; this was probably a preliminary location, and we'd be moving to another location if I were found acceptable.

I was five minutes early when I arrived, but I saw two people sitting at the outer left table – the place where I was supposed to meet – and pegged the woman as Ferro, and the older man as her superior. Ferro seemed to be radiating an aura of coolness to me, while the older man had a hard edge to his demeanor, with a hint of weasel. A strange combination, I mused, before I walked up to the table and got their attention.

We introduced ourselves to each other, and I found out that her boss was a man named Lorenzo, and that he was the chief of the agency that was offering me this job. The next half-hour was your standard interview, with a few odd questions thrown in. One question that they paid particular attention to was whether or not I liked children. I answered in the affirmative, and I was surprised by the faint smile that Ferro offered me. A panel van pulled up, and I was unceremoniously ushered into it for a forty-five minute long trip in total silence; looks passed between Ferro and Lorenzo, but I couldn't decipher them. They were playing the game in a manner far above what my meager skills could even attempt to understand.

They took me to a hospital, much to my surprise. It was one I've never heard of before, and with a surgeon as a brother, that meant something was afoot. The place wasn't very big, but you could almost feel the aura of confidence and arrogance the staff there exuded. Everything was still bright and shiny there, as if the equipment had seen little use or was still very new. Lorenzo took me by the arm, and guided me to an observation room. We both looked through the window down towards the bed in the middle of the operating room, and gazed at the young girl sleeping peacefully.

My curiosity got the better of me and I asked Lorenzo what this trip was all about. As I understood it, I was to be a trainer of the agency's men – presumably in maritime-related tactics and exercises, considering my prior background. What were we doing here then, looking upon a child in a place of medicine? He explained.

I was to be the trainer of this child, I was told. She was a victim of a pirate incident off the coast of Sicily. No family left to speak of – they all died in the incident. Her boat was found adrift by a merchant ship, which had sent a crew over to investigate. Amongst the carnage of the floating charnel house, her desecrated body had been found still breathing, with her mewling pitifully from the pain. The pirates had forced her to do physically impossible actions, sexually abused her, and broke her back before leaving her there, slowly dying, just for kicks. The agency had salvaged her, rebuilt her, and enhanced her, transferring her from Hell into eternal purgatory (at least, that was my opinion of what had happened). If I was to accept the offer of the position as her trainer – her handler, as Lorenzo put it – she was to be mine. Mine to mold in my image, to train in my own unique way and to care for by my hands. Most importantly, mine to wield.

I accepted. A satisfied smile crossed Lorenzo's face as I verbalized my agreement to his offer, and again, I caught a whiff of weasel. Something was not right with this gray-haired man who was the chief of this agency. I turned my attention back to the red-haired girl lying limply in the bed, and studied her face. If she'd possessed brown hair, I would've mistaken her a younger Minuet. Their facial structure was almost identical, I thought. Lorenzo left the room, and Ferro came in his stead. She told me that in three days, she would be moved to the dorms where the other girls already were (there were others?) but I needed to name her first. After announcing that, she produced a pen and a clipboard holding some paperwork, and proffered them to me. I wrote down a single word on the first line.

Renata.

_**Salvezza**_

**A Gunslinger Girl Fan Fiction**

**By Roastpuff**


	2. One: Comprensione

**First Chapter: _Comprensione_**

She woke up in a room that she was unfamiliar with. It was stark and barren, with nothing besides the bed that she was lying on and a table beside it. She could not remember who she was, where she was or what she was doing in such a place. She could, however, remember how to speak perfect Italian, perfect French and perfect English. She could remember how to disassemble and service most of the common firearms found in the world, and she could remember the proper techniques on how to hold most types of weaponry for the best accuracy and control when firing. She could remember two-dozen different ways on how to disable someone with her body, or need be, to kill them with a few efficient moves.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember the dream that she was having before she woke up, but the images, sensations and sounds slipped away between her mental fingers like water through a sieve. All she could remember was flashes of red-hot pain alternated with ice-cold numbness… and she didn't particularly want to remember that part of the dream. Clenching her fists as she tried to move on to another memory – not that there was a particular surplus of them for her – she noticed that her nails were smooth, and this was at odds with her memory of their usual ragged condition due to the disagreeable habit of nail-biting that she knew she possessed. Deciding to explore this new development, she opened her eyes and raised her hands to her face, examining all five cuticles on each hand carefully.

Curious, she mused, how her hands were smooth and unblemished with any marks at all. There were no indications of bites on the nails, and her fingers seemed more slender than before. She flexed her right hand experimentally, and rotated her wrist to examine all aspects of that particular extremity. She heard the click of the door's latch as someone pressed down on the handle outside, and she sat up in bed so that she faced the door.

She squinted against the bright sun outside as the door opened, and waited for the person to completely step into the room and close the door before looking at him. He was not that tall, but he was stocky and muscular – this much was apparent even through the suit that he wore. His face was kind, and the wavy black hair that was on top of his head gave him a boyish air to go with his dimpled chin. His eyes were brown, warm and gave the impression that he cared. The two of them stared at one another – brown eyes into brown eyes – for some while before he started speaking in a pleasant baritone.

"My name is Donatello. How are you feeling, Renata?" he said, clearly waiting for a response from her. His mentioning of her name seemed to provoke a reaction from within her psyche, and everything seemed less confusing once she knew her name.

"I'm feeling alright," she replied slowly. "Where am I, Mr. Donatello?"

"You are at the Social Welfare Agency, Renata. I am to be your handler."

/break/

The sun was shining brightly when the two of them entered the mostly-deserted swimming pool complex. Renata's eyes widened at the blue-green water filling the pool, and Donatello paused mid-stride to ensure that his new charge was not experiencing some sort of trepidation at the thought of entering Olympic-standard body of water. She shook her head like a dog shaking off water, and resumed her walk towards the shallow end of the pool. Aside from that short hesitation, Renata seemed to be adjusting well to her new life; Donatello had been briefed on her history prior to her 'adoption' by the agency, and he was well-aware that encountering large bodies of water could trigger an undesirable reaction. So far, this was the third day that they'd been to the pool, and Renata's hesitancy in entering the general vicinity of large bodies of water was decreasing with each successive visit. The next step was for her to get on a boat again, and that was not yet scheduled for another week and a half.

With a nod from Donatello, she put down the bright pink towel that she had been carrying and slipped into the pool. He watched as she clung to the edge of the pool and started the breathing exercise that he'd taught her during their first visit to the pool. Not only did it help develop her lung capacity, it also acclimatized her to being immersed in water as she ducked underwater. Donatello put down his own towel and joined her inside the pool, waiting for her to finish the drill before beginning with anything else.

"We'll be doing kicking drills again today, Renata. I'll hold you up, and you try kicking again," said Donatello. Still silent, Renata nodded in agreement and headed over to where her handler stood, using her feet to push her that way whenever she touched the bottom of the pool. Obediently, she stretched her body out so that she was lying belly-down in the water and waited for Donatello to support her in the water before starting to kick. Holding her up with a spread palm on her stomach, he was again somewhat surprised by the heavy weight of the girl in his hands. The enhancements performed by the Agency had considerably boosted her strength, her toughness and her reflexes, but it also made the little girl weigh around twice what a girl her age should weigh. He estimated her current weight to be about a hundred and fifty pounds sopping wet, which was giving her some problems in her attempts to stay floating in the water. Nevertheless, she was improving, and the sporadic spastic seizures that plagued her during her first few days out of bed were almost gone. Her general coordination was almost optimal, according to Dr. Bianchi, and soon it would be time for her to start weapons training.

"Keep your knees locked, 'Ta," Donatello corrected absent-mindedly, going through future training schedules in his head. "Kick from the hips, not the knee."

"Yes, Donatello," replied Renata, straightening her legs and kicking with renewed vigor. "What are we going to do today after swimming, Donatello?"

"Ah, already thinking ahead, are we?" said Donatello with a smile. He was glad to see her asking more questions; for the first few days, it had been awkward to speak to an unresponsive little girl who acquiesced to his every request like an automaton. "What would you like to do?"

"I liked that little gelato place we went to when we were shopping for more clothes yesterday. Could we please go back and have some more gelato?" requested Renata bashfully.

"We certainly can, Renata. We'll go shopping for more clothes while we're at it too. There's not enough clothing in your closet for you to wear in any sort of a normal fashion. But first, we need to complete our swimming exercises yet. I want you to do thirty laps with the kickboard, alternating arm pulls. _Capisca?"_ Donatello asked with a smile.

"_Capito!"_ Renata replied with a beaming smile. _"Grazie, Donatello."_

"Don't thank me just yet. We've just begun on the swimming exercises!" he warned good-naturedly. "Now go! I don't want to see you stopping midway, because then I'm going to have to assign you more laps to do!"

With a chuckle he tossed over the kicking board to Renata and she started kicking her way to the opposite end of the pool, making sure to stay within the lane marked out on the bottom of the natatorium. He decided that he might as well do what she was doing, and adjusted the goggles over his eyes before settling into the lane next to hers. Cutting the water easily in a front crawl, Donatello easily caught up to the kicking form of Renata and passed her. He made sure to take a look at her form whenever he caught up to her, and noted to himself any mistakes that he spotted – not that she was making many.

By the time he was done fifty laps, Renata was almost done her twenty-fifth, and so he settled back at the wall to watch her complete her last five lengths. A shadow passed over him, and he bent his head back to find Priscilla smiling down at him. She raised her eyebrow in a silent question, to which he replied with his own raised eyebrow. She capitulated and spoke first.

"Good morning, Donatello. I was wondering whether Renata would be free later today, because I would like to take her out to pick out some clothes for her to wear. I'm trying to prevent another fashion disaster before it occurs, you see," explained Priscilla contritely – yet with an undertone that suggested amusement at her current situation. "Gwen had to suffer through Orazio's attempts to dress her for the first few weeks, and it gave all of us headaches to look at the girl when she tried to let Orazio know that she didn't appreciate his attempts to dress her this way. The girls in the office decided that I should be the one go over and nip this in the bud before it turns into something… monstrous. So if you don't mind, I'd like to help choose Renata's clothing for her."

"Just because I am a man doesn't mean that I have no sense of aesthetics, Priscilla!" protested Donatello with a return smile. "However, I think Renata will be more than happy to have you along on our shopping trip this afternoon. Do you think you'd be able to join us after lunch? Make sure to keep some room for gelato as well, because we're visiting our favorite gelato shop after shopping as well."

"That's wonderful then! Save a spot at lunch for me!" said Priscilla, before waving good-bye and heading off to… wherever she was headed off to. Donatello though he could hear her muttering something as she walked away, but he couldn't make out what it was. Shrugging inwardly, he returned his attention to Renata, who was by now almost finished the thirty laps he had assigned her.

Assessing her form once more, he was satisfied by what he saw. Time to move on to actual swimming instruction, he supposed, rather than just warm-up exercises.

/break/

"So, are you glad we went shopping today, Renata?" asked Donatello as he handed her the cone of straciatella gelato that she so adored. "Ten shops, four hundred thirty-two Euros and enough bags to fill my car to the brim."

"I am very glad we went shopping today, Donatello!" replied Renata with a sunny smile. Turning her attention to her gelato, she proceeded to tune out whatever Donatello was saying next. Smiling in amusement, he turned his attention to Priscilla, who was regarding _him_ with amusement. She only smiled even more when he quirked an eyebrow at her, and mouthed 'later' as a reply. Giving her a quizzical look, Donatello started on his own gelato cone, quickly catching the dribbles with his tongue before they fell off and hit the ground.

The day was sunny, and warm enough so that the trio could do without their jackets – though it did make it rather awkward for Donatello, as he had to make sure his shirttail covered his Heckler & Koch USP40 when he was sitting. Absently scanning the crowd around him, he wondered where Priscilla kept _her_ pistol. Probably her handbag – that was a very handy excuse for female operatives – which was just about the size needed to conceal a compact pistol around the size of a Beretta 8000, which was her preferred gun if he remembered correctly.

A pair of men moving brusquely through the crowd caught his attention, and he shifted his attention to them, trying to recall why they had twigged his instincts. The one in the lead turned his head to glance around, and Donatello twitched when he saw the face. It was Cristiano – a mid-level organizer for Padania, and a man who had a finger in almost every pie in the city. Photographs of him were required reading for all Agency operatives, and almost everyone there could pick him out in a crowd almost instantly. Donatello used his foot to unobtrusively nudge Priscilla, and when she looked over at him, he used his chin to point at Cristiano, who was negotiating his way through the crowd still. Recognition flared in her eyes, and Priscilla looked over at him with a 'what do we do now?' expression, giving him the opportunity to lead her in this sudden development.

"Renata. Go to the car, and wait there. If Priscilla and I are not back within thirty minutes, call Jean and tell him that we spotted Cristiano and we were following him," commanded Donatello firmly. Renata nodded once, sharply, gathered the three bags they still had at the table, caught the tossed keys and mobile, and scampered off to where they had parked at the start of their trip, ready to carry out her handler's orders – all the while not forgetting to lick her gelato steadily so it didn't melt onto the ground.

Donatello offered his arm to Priscilla, who accepted it with a smile and followed him as he began walking calmly in the general direction that Cristiano was headed. She leaned her head on his shoulder as they walked, and spoke softly so that nobody could hear what she was saying except for Donatello.

"Why did you send Renata away and choose me to go on this little adventure of yours, Donatello?" murmured Priscilla softly. "Isn't she supposed to be your partner?"

"She's not ready, and you know it. Those implanted memories in her head don't give her the ability to be deadly. I haven't started weapons training with her yet, and I don't know how paranoid Cristiano would be if he saw a little girl following him. Our cover as a couple works much better, in my opinion. The Agency's been chasing Padanias so long they have to know about the girls already," explained Donatello to Priscilla, making sure to smile at her and seem like nothing more than a loving boyfriend who was replying to a comment his sweet girlfriend had made. "And… it still doesn't feel right to me, having a little girl do the dirty work. Call me old-fashioned or unenlightened, but I'm just not ready for it yet."

"It does feel wrong, sometimes, yeah?" Priscilla whispered. "But think of it as giving them new life. All of the girls we work with would have not survived to see their next birthday had we not stepped in and intervened. And if you ask them I think they would say that they prefer their life now to what it had been before."

"I suppose," acknowledged Donatello. "Look, he's stopping."

Indeed, Cristiano was stopping and talking on his mobile, leaning on the storefront behind him – and conveniently allowing him to perform counter-surveillance checks as to whether her was being followed or not. Donatello ambled along past the Padania man until he was ahead by two storefronts, and then turned to ostensibly window-shop at the store he was in front of. To Priscilla's delight, they had stopped in front of a jewelry store.

"If I asked for that necklace, would you buy it to help strengthen our cover?" she asked teasingly, turning to face Donatello so that she could keep an eye on Cristiano, who was still 'chatting' on his mobile. "Would it help if I pouted cutely and gave you puppy-dog eyes?"

"Probably not. I don't think my character would buy his girlfriend a necklace just because she pouted at him, he's not that rich," retorted Donatello with a smile. "Has he moved yet?"

"Not yet," replied Priscilla. "What if… what if she did this?" With that, she tiptoed and kissed Donatello on the lips, bringing her hands up to cup his face as she did so. "What would he say then?"

He was stunned speechless, to say the least. His brown eyes – bewildered, disorientated, filled with confusion, guilt and desire – stared back into green ones that were calm and steady, unflinching under his gaze. A war was taking place within him – guilt as he remembered Minuet, anger at Priscilla for daring to do such a thing, desire as he recalled how the kiss tasted like the banana gelato that she had – and it was unclear which side would win. Cristiano saved him by passing by them, and Donatello grasped at his duty like how a drowning man grasps for a life preserver thrown to him. Giving himself a moment to compose himself, he gathered his wits and began walking slowly again; Priscilla fell into step beside him, squeezing his hand, both in silent apology and encouragement.

"Later," he told her quietly. "We'll talk later. Cristiano comes first."

/break/

"What in the name of God were you thinking?" rasped Jean when the couple found their way back to where they had parked their car. The agency van was there, and it was clear that they had come expecting the worst. Three _fratello_ teams had come along, not to mention the presence of Alfonso and Ferro, and the back of the van seemed to have quite the assortment of weapons, including Rico's MG3. "Tailing Cristiano all by yourselves, with _no backup_, is a quick way to get yourself killed! There is a reason that man has not been caught yet, and that is because _he is good._"

Jean was in a state of cold fury now – enough to scare the living daylights of most of the operatives of the Social Welfare Agency – but Donatello was not about to back down.

"Your boss told me that I could chase down Padania men if it did not conflict with a current mission. Right now, I don't _have_ a mission to attend to. So, this gives me the right to chase down whoever I want _on my own time_ – which is what I'm doing," retorted Donatello hotly. "Maybe Cristiano caught on to you because _you _were _sloppy._ Have you ever thought about that?"

Jose cut in smoothly before anything worse could happen, and diverted the attention of the two men towards another topic.

"What _did_ you learn, though, from following Cristiano?" interjected Jose calmly, flicking his gaze back and forth from the impassive mien his brother was displaying and the towering rage that was visible behind the new recruit's eyes. "Did he meet up with anyone, or say anything useful that you could pick up on – not that that's likely."

"He went inside an apartment building. Via Cadlolo Alberto, 101. Second floor outside apartment," answered Priscilla, clearly aware of the need to defuse the tension between the two men. "The blinds on the windows were down when we doubled back fifteen minutes after Cristiano went upstairs."

"Alright. Rico, why don't you go get set-up on the opposite rooftop. Do not fire without express permission from a handler. Petrushka, grab that new fiber-optic surveillance set that we just got from the Israelis, and recon the building. No shots. I don't want any attention drawn to us right now. If you're questioned, work your way out. Plant two sticky-cams on the hallway corners, and try to put the microphone on the door itself. Henrietta, get ready to bail out Petrushka if she needs it. Alfonso, go with her. Silenced weapons only, please," ordered Jose, putting the crowd around the van in a frenzy of activity. He gave his brother a level look, and Jean put up his hands in surrender before grabbing his equipment case and following Rico as she made her way to the rooftop of the building opposite of the one that Priscilla had indicated.

"As for you two, why don't you stay here with Ferro and Renata? We'll take care of watching Cristiano… and this time we'll try not to lose him again," said Jose firmly. With that said, he went inside the van, presumably to monitor the situation, which left Priscilla, Renata and Donatello sitting outside with Ferro, who tactfully went inside as well at a nod from Priscilla. When she left, Donatello slumped against the side of the alleyway, and let out a sigh that conveyed both frustration and relief.

"Are you alright, Donato?" asked Priscilla. "You were very… angry, against Jean back there."

"I'm alright. I think it's just the sudden stresses of the day that's got me wired up like this. If you get what I mean," he said, directing a wan smile at her, which made her smile back sadly. "Don't feel bad about what you did; I'm just not ready yet. Do you know why I joined the Agency in the first place, Priscilla?"

"Each of us has our own sordid story on how we got into this job, Donatello. We don't talk about people behind their backs, and we try not to let others' pasts affect the way we interact with them. So no, I don't know your reasons for joining. Only Ferro and Chief Lorenzo know," explained Priscilla. "If you want to tell me, I'll listen. If you don't, that's also fine with me."

So he began talking, and for the first time in six months, Donatello Tagliani poured his heart out to someone.

/break/

"Donatello?" asked Renata softly, as he was tucking her into her bed at the dormitory. "What am I? Triela and Gwen say that their handlers treat them like daughters, Rico says that Jean uses her like a tool, and Henrietta says that she feels like Jose is her brother. What am I to you?"

"Never what, Renata. Who. You are, to me, a wonderful girl who is unique in her own way and doesn't fit any specific mold that the world tends to separate people into," replied Donatello. _More like I'm not sure either._ "Now go to sleep, you've had a long day today."

"Good night, Donatello," said Renata with a sleepy smile. Donatello smiled back and patted her on the head, walking out and closing the door with a quiet 'click.' He moved to the edge of the courtyard in the middle of the dormitory, and let out of sigh while staring up into the night sky, which was clear and twinkling beautifully. What Renata was to him was a sticky question indeed. He didn't really know what to think of her; they'd only spent a week together so far, and she had only come out of her shell a day or two before. Was she a daughter to him? A niece? A sister? A tool, to be used for revenge in Minuet's name, used for chasing terrorists? A burden? He wondered how the other handlers stayed sane after working in the Agency for so long. Here he was, a week in, and already faced by a myriad of moral conundrums that he didn't really know how to make heads or tails of.

"_Think of it as giving them new life,"_ Priscilla had said. That was true enough; these waifs would not have survived their previous lives to see adulthood if it was not for the intervention of the Agency. But was it _right_ for them to play God, and decide who would live and who would not? Was it right for them to give these little girls the tools necessary for their use as child assassins, doing the legally unacceptable work of the Italian government? The Social Welfare Agency was a 'black' organization, no doubt about that. It had no ties to the Department of Defense, or the military, or any 'official' agency. 'Plausible deniability,' the Americans called it. An agency that was able to do illegal acts, under the orders of the government but not under its name. It was like something straight out of a Tom Clancy novel, when you think of it.

Goddamn it. He wished he smoked – it seemed like such a good way to think things out. A drink would be excellent as well, but he didn't feel like having alcohol cloud his judgment when a situation like this was hovering around him. It would just make him weepy and unbalanced.

He really did like Renata. She was a lovable little girl, and once her shell had broken, it was pure sunshine underneath that was shining through. It was as if Minuet had been reborn in a child's body – apt, since the name Renata meant _reborn_ in Italian. He wondered if the way he treated Renata was the way he would've treated his daughter – he felt a stab of grief as he remembered the future he could've had if Minuet had survived, but it passed by quickly – when she was ten years old. His daughter – probably – wouldn't have had to be a government assassin when she grew up.

There was also the dilemma of Priscilla to consider. She had made her intent clear to him; now it was up to Donatello to decide on what to do with it. The confusion and emotional turmoil he felt earlier in the day was still there. On one hand, he felt guilty even _thinking_ of pursuing a relationship with Priscilla; it had only been about six months since the accident, and he still had nights when he couldn't stop thinking about Minuet. He didn't know if he was capable of having a relationship and _not_ compare everything that he did with Priscilla with how it was when he was with Minuet. On the other hand, however, he wasn't completely black with grief. He could still remember how the kiss tasted – how her body had felt – what she had meant by the kiss – and he responded to that as well as any red-blooded male. The desire to have companionship was a compelling one to him. They were two adults, able to give consent to whatever they wanted to do.

What a quandary for him this was. Priscilla knew what she wanted, and she had told him in the clearest of ways possible. It was him that was the problem. It was him who was going to be responsible for coming up to a solution. He didn't want to reject her outright – he knew what a foolish decision that would be – but would she be amenable to a request for time so he could sort himself out?

He was pretty sure that she would be. At least that settled the game plan for tomorrow. Sighing, he scrubbed his face and headed for his room. It was time to turn in for the night; he didn't think that he could survive standing out here and thinking for another ten minutes without going insane.

Hah. Was he even sane right now?


	3. Two: Pensiero

**Second Chapter**_**: Pensiero**_

Sleep had been elusive for me last night. No matter what position I took (on my back, on my belly, curled up like a baby, with my ass in the air), or what routine I attempted (counting sheep, imagining waves of darkness going over me, thinking of hot girls - damn, that one only brought thoughts of Priscilla back up!) I could not fall asleep. Finally, being really and truly exhausted, I fell into a fitful slumber around four in the morning. I woke up at eight feeling slightly disgruntled and proceeded to serve myself a cold breakfast; I was too irritated to even contemplate expending the effort to make myself something other than cereal. I never did like heavy breakfasts, at any rate. Once I discovered the joys of granola with whole milk - kindly introduced to me by an American Navy SEAL that had been cross-posted to our ship in the Mediterranean several years back - I was loath to give it up.

The granola's crunchy texture managed to occupy my thoughts until breakfast was finished, and it turned back into the writhing mass of worms that had been plaguing me throughout the whole night. Firstly, there was the question of Priscilla and her sudden attempt at seducing me. Secondly, there also was Renata's desire to know and understand her role in her relationship with me. Thirdly, what animal in the name of all that is precious had managed to crawl up Jean Croce's rectum and died? From the way that he had acted yesterday, I was tempted to say skunk or maybe a ferret. The contract that I had signed clearly said that I was empowered to conduct my vendetta - yes, I had come to terms with it as such - whenever the opportunity presented itself and if it was not in conflict with an ongoing mission. Since I didn't see anyone following Cristiano as he walked across the plaza, and Priscilla and I had managed to follow him for a good thirty minutes without being spotted, I assumed that there _wasn't_ anything going on at that particular moment. Therefore, I was perfectly within my right to tail Cristiano. It was a good thing that Priscilla was there with me, too. I was quite tempted to go up and introduce that mid-level managerial mongrel to my good friend Mr. American Interrogation, who originally came from Guantanamo Bay and met me over a bowl of granola.

Which now brings me back to the issue of Priscilla's kiss. I may not have been as experienced as some of the men that I served with in the Navy, ("a girl in every port" was not just a saying with some of them) I was not a naive schoolboy either. Her kiss was basically a blatant declaration of her attraction to me in the most straightforward of ways, and I appreciated the fact that she was immediately honest with me, rather than dropping subtle hints in an attempt to provoke a reaction from me. It took me two years to realize that Minuet was attracted to me as much as I was attracted to her, and I was still kicking myself for waiting almost a year after I realized that before I made a move. It was a good thing she was patient with me - I never was the pointiest pencil in the box. Again, I was still unsure if I could handle a romantic relationship with someone without comparing her to Minuet. Six months hadn't even passed yet! It would be unfair for both of us - and potentially hurtful - if I committed before I was ready. And today was promising to be a not-so-good day; all the thinking about relationships and Minuet and how good the two of us were together... it just rips at my heart. I'm trying very hard to not tear up as I'm washing the bowl but it's a futile effort. I'm pretty sure the spoon ended up a little bit bent by the time I was done.

Steering myself onto less dangerous territory, I try to recall the training schedule I had drawn up for Renata. Instead of more calisthenics like I had planned, I decided to move on to range safety training and to get her familiarized with her personal weapon. If a situation like yesterday occurs again, I don't want her to be helpless to defend herself against firearm-wielding attackers. Just the thought of her being trapped in a crossfire made my heart clench - it's surprising how fast you can bond to someone, sometimes. There weren't going to be any live bullets in today's exercise though - I'm not sure if she's ready to handle a loaded weapon yet, and Doctor Bianchi has to okay her for active duty first before we can get to the really strenuous live-fire exercises.

I made a mental note to make sure to fit the custom grips I got Renata to her hand - they're quite useless, otherwise. My time with the Operational Raider Group left me with the habit of tweaking the weapons in my possession to fit me, their specific user, as well as possible. I noticed that most of the firearms that I saw at the Agency were almost always stock, with the exception of the sniper rifles that I saw Rico and Henrietta use. Even then, Rico's modifications were only to the scope and the stock's spacers, nothing more. With a custom cheekpiece and trigger assembly, I was quite sure that she could be even more accurate - and deadlier - than she already was. Henrietta was heads and shoulders above Rico in that regard; the Walther WA2000 rifle that Jose equips her with was one of the best urban-sniper rifles that existed, and it had gobs of customizability. It wouldn't hurt to have someone competent check the setup over, but it wouldn't be hard to correct whatever niggling errors there were thanks to the rifle's excellent features. Horrendously expensive, but it was definitely an outstanding weapon.

Sighing, I stood up and went over to my firearms safe to pick out the weapons I wanted for Renata. Today would just be an introductory class, with the objective of getting her familiarized with the tools that she was going to have to work with in the near future. Therefore, I decided to start off with the Heckler & Koch HK53 carbine that I had picked out for her. This particular weapon had been my own issue piece with the ORG before we switched over to the Diemaco C8 carbine, and it was still in a very good condition. I frowned as I thought of how the girls at the Agency usually concealed their weapons inside an instrument case of some sort. Hopefully, they would have one that could be fitted to the HK53 and carried some extra magazines inside it. A violin case was oddly shaped, but it might work. Something shaped in a square might work even better, but I had no clue as to what instrument had a case that came close to the size that Renata would need for the carbine. At least the pistol wouldn't be troublesome to conceal. A similar holster like the rig that Henrietta carried in the small of her back would be perfect for Renata, especially with the extra height and slightly wider waist that she had over the smaller girl. As for the pistol... I smiled sadly as I picked up the USP Compact in .40S&W that was hanging at the back of the safe. On the underside of the barrel was an inscription that I had a friend of mine engrave into the frame of the gun when I got it for Minuet two years back: _"For when I'm not there."_ She'd needled me unceasingly when I got her that gun for our first anniversary, but she knew why I did it and she appreciated the gesture behind it. We hadn't moved to our current apartment, which was in a very nice neighborhood, and were residing in a slightly seedy part of town. When the baby was announced, almost everyone that we knew helped chip into our "new apartment" fund, so that we could afford to be in a more appropriate environment for our child when he or she was born. Too bad that particular dream never came to be.

Brushing over the inscription once again, I put both guns into a padded gun bag for transport, and changed into clothing more appropriate for work, such as it is, than a t-shirt and some boxers. I zipped up my pants, clipped on my pancake holster at the small of my back and buttoned up the short-sleeved shirt, making sure the tail was covering the rig. Grabbing both the gun bag and my duffel, which was filled with gear that I'd need for the pool training today, I headed out from my apartment to find the bright Italian morning sunlight throwing itself on my face. Squinting against the bright beams, I went over to where I'd parked my car yesterday night and dropped the two bags, fumbling for the key inside my jeans. After a rather humiliating forty-five seconds of attempting to grab the keys, which had fallen into the recesses of my pocket - and feeling as though I was exhibiting exhibitionist tendencies - I found it, unlocked the car, and got in. Settling myself into the bucket seat, I started the engine and cracked a small smile at the throaty growl that graced the tailpipes. This car never failed to lift my mood whenever I was feeling down.

What I was driving was a Lancia Delta, one of the most famous Italian hot hatches, and the basis for an immensely successful series of rally cars that competed in the renowned World Rally Championship. Well, renowned by everyone except the Americans, that is. They considered racing around a banked oval _five hundred times_ racing. Honestly. The particular model I possessed was an Integrale Evoluzione II in Madras Blue, one from the last batch of Deltas ever produced. Which was rather disheartening, come to think of it. Nevertheless, the car was an incredible machine even though it was more than ten years old; it could run rings around most cars on the market, and after what I'd done to its innards, could probably keep up with a Ferrari. To be honest, I was hoping for a certain Alfa Romeo coupé to show itself. Then, I'd see how it'd handle being chased by something more powerful than it. Maybe I could practice chasing one of the other handlers at the Agency; I've been several fancy sports cars parked in the lot, and I knew that Jose owned the burgundy-red Porsche Boxster that I parked beside yesterday. He seemed to be a nice enough guy - I hope he wasn't averse to a little friendly competition to see who was faster. The Mercedes CL600 coupé that I saw there yesterday must've belonged to Jean, however; no one else was cold or aloof enough to be the owner of that car. I'd also really like to show _him_ my taillights. He was such an overbearing prick, sometimes. Orazio's American muscle car would be an interesting match-up against my Italian rally machine... who won would depend on the course and how good each driver was, of course.

The rest of the cars there weren't anything special, though I did raise my eyebrow at Alessandro's Smart Car and Hilshire's E-class Mercedes wagon. Both were such... girl cars, that I was silently questioning the reasoning behind the purchase of those two vehicles. Picturing Alessandro and Hilshire with feminine alter-egos was _not _how I wanted to start off my day. Though, Triela was the perfect foil to a female Hilshire, when one considered the predominantly masculine attire she preferred to wear.

With a chuckle at the thought of Hilshire in a slinky black dress, I slipped the Lancia into first gear and started off for another day of work at the Social Welfare Agency.

**A/N: **Sorry for the delay, I'm pulling out the old excuse of schoolwork (math summer course, 2 hours of lecture every day and a midterm every week for 5 weeks, and a final on the 15th of June) and the old "my computer is broken" excuse as well (my Macbook Pro is in the shop getting a new screen due to some defects covered under warranty). This was written entirely in two days' time on my old Clie, which I possess an external keyboard for. There was very little editing done, aside from grammatical and mechanical repair to the words. Again, please let me know what you think of the chapter, and I'll try to do better the next time around. 


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